


Fire and Ice

by shadow13



Series: We Didn't Light it but We Tried to Fight It [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (I warned you), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Corporate drama, Creepyshipping, F/M, It's creepy but it's sexy, Masturbation, Older Man/Younger Woman, School Girl Outfit, UST, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2812631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow13/pseuds/shadow13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants, does the Chief Financial Officer, he fantasizes. A virginal little high schooler, depending how deeply Joffrey has sunk his claws? Even better. He's around worldly, experienced women all the time, pure is new, pure is arousing. He employs women who can strip fit to torture the most sainted Pope, and here is sweet little Sansa, who doesn't have to do a thing – who just stands there and makes him hard. That's power, that little red-haired vixen, she has no idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Ice

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot for a series I will be doing, a modern AU; as such, it's a bit out of context. By all means, ask questions if you're confused. When will I be doing the whole series? When I fulfill my obligations to my huge Laby fics/when my beta lets me (so you have to go ask Mztlynne).  
> Spot the switch in elemental motifs, win a prize!  
> A little background: my B.A. Is in anthropology, and for my senior thesis, I did the first ethnographic study of a very, very big Manhattan escort agency (yes, that kind of escort agency). So as much as I'd love for Petyr to be nicer to the people he employs, I couldn't do that here for many (probably obvious) reasons. But I also strive to be true to the structure of that kind of world, for how little it is mentioned.  
> I'm hoping this straddles that thin, tempting line between “creepy,” and “Excuse me, I have to be alone for a moment – no, really, I'm fine, I just, um, excuse me.” A little (read: a lot) dirtier than my usual, but it's written from the male perspective, so it'd kind of have to be.  
> Soundtrack for this fic: “It's a Dangerous Game,” from Jekyll and Hyde (OBC, motherfuckers, that's how I roll!).

Thursday afternoon with the Board of Directors.  Nothing on this earth is more boring than Thursday afternoon with the Board of Directors. Petyr has his files carefully stacked in front of him, and his tablet is propped up on that. The way his brows knit together, he looks the perfect picture of studiousness, but really, he's answering emails.

_ From:  _ _ Ros@mockingbird.xxx _

_To: Mockingbird@mockingbird.xxx_

_Subj: RE: Deliveries_

_ We got the order of cocktail napkins in fine, but the driver started talking about sharing what he knows with certain interested parties – whatever that means.  _ (He smirks; good girl, Ros.)  _ Brune is discussing the matter with him right now. Is there anything in particular you'd like? - Ros _

Tyrion has gotten up to speak about security issues with the company, recent hacking incidents that could just be Russian data farmers  _ again _ , but still worry the man. Baelish restrains from rolling his eyes, and taps out his response.

_ Brune can use his discretion. Let the company know we expect better service or we'll be taking our business elsewhere _ . He never signs these emails, and this isn't his normal address. Ros  _ has  _ his company email (Petyr.Baelish@stormsoft.com, and those emails he always signs “PB,”) but he tries to avoid mixing business with business. People take a dim view of these kinds of things; well,  _ some  _ people. It's the most open secret among the Stormsoft board, Robert damn well admired it. “You're a lucky man, Baelish, surrounded by all those girls. What I wouldn't give to be in your shoes.” Baby Renly always glared at his brother for it, much the way Cersei glares now, in Robert's old chair. But everyone else either appreciates and patronizes Baelish's side venture, or otherwise is completely ambivalent. Oh, there is Stannis, but he hardly counts. If it weren't for the square jaw and blue eyes, Petyr wouldn't think he was a Baratheon at all, the only dower, serious one of the brothers. Like someone had replaced him in the crib, a changeling baby, his grandmother would have called him. But he only has to put up with Stannis' constipated looking face on digital conference calls or his occasional trips out, as his hands are full managing the East Coast branch of the company from Boston.

Even the ones who try to frown on his establishment support it; Tyrion has been an on-and-off regular for years, though apparently he's been finding his lovers through Craigslist lately, and that's just asking to get some kind of infection. And regal Cersei lets, nearly encourages, her little prince to attend the club side of the building – even demanded a properly improper I.D. Out of Baelish in order to keep him from getting in trouble with the law. Underage drinking in the club half of the building is the least of his worries, and as long as he isn't getting dragged into it, he doesn't care. He hates that obnoxious kid, but he doesn't care.

Petyr is about to move on to more aboveboard emails, his stylus tapping against the table. Tyrion is still talking. “-I don't know if any of you care, but we  _ are  _ charged with keeping the information of our clientele secure, because if we  _ don't  _ do that, we're going to lose business. Surely that will wake you dullards up? Losing money? Now, Varys, you're the CIO, tell me what we're going to-” But none of it matters; it particularly doesn't matter because Petyr doesn't  _ do  _ security, and this is wasting his time, and he hates  _ nothing  _ more than wasting his time, which is the essence of Thursday afternoon with the Board of Directors-

But ah, it doesn't matter, because there's that flash of red from just out of the corner of his eye. He glances at the clock on the wall: 3:15, right on schedule. She's surrounded by bobbing heads full of blond curls, but it hardly matters – it makes her burn all the more brightly, and Petyr has no problem turning his head to look out the glass walls of the boardroom, schooling his features to make it look like he's merely lost in thought. Which, in a sense, he is.

The  _ best  _ part about Thursday afternoon is that it's almost Friday, and it's not that his social calendar is particularly full on weekends, but rather there is no school on Fridays. Every afternoon, after school, the children are driven straight to Stormsoft headquarters, still in their black and grey uniforms. No extra-curricular activities, Cercei's orders. She wants the children with her when she's at the company and they're out of school, the world's only absentee helicopter mom. This policy of the lion mother's bothers Sansa, he knows; he's heard her talking wistfully about it to Myrcella. Dance classes she used to take, or participation in the honor society, or the fashion club she was president of in her  _ old  _ school, and how last year she arranged a fashion show with funds going to charity. Fridays are free days, as the school believes in encouraging its students to spend a day in free, rigorous study – which doesn't happen, who  _ are  _ they kidding? Joffrey gets dragged around in an attempt to prep him for his future inheritance, but trying to turn that kid into a future titan of industry is about as useful as trying to hatch a stone. Myrcella and Tommen will at least start their homework, but they spend the day in the break room, playing video or board games or doing whatever they feel like. Sansa sits at the secondary conference table and studies and looks  _ beautiful _ . So effortlessly. 

It's a tenant of human desire, in Baelish's experience, that girls look prettiest when they're happy. His girls are always to smile, even when they want to sob ( _ especially  _ when they want to sob). But mourning becomes Sansa. It turns her blue eyes dark, it makes her bite those red lips of hers in an effort to keep her composure, and  _ God _ , that's a thought, isn't it? He taps his stylus a little faster and wonders if he shouldn't start moving his files closer, so it won't look so suspicious when he has to hold them on his lap. Instead, he thinks about Sansa's eyes: thinks about them glittering and sky-blue when she laughs, but when was the last time she laughed?; thinks about them dark and sapphire when she's unhappy, and how they fit into her round face with her milky skin and blushing cheeks; he thinks  _ hard  _ on what they might look like when she's lustful. Tanzanite, he hopes, beautiful for its color and its rarity, just like her and her desires that linger just under her porcelain surface. Any idiot could compare Sansa's eyes to sapphires. He hopes tanzanite, but really, he's not picky. 

Robert envied him his girls, but Petyr doesn't touch them. He knows some managers do, but that's poor business. Nothing will create hatred between the workers and the supervisors faster than one being allowed to use the other, so at the Mockingbird, that's strictly off limits. Not that he particularly cares if they hate one another, because obviously they do, because one group has to have sex for money, and another group doesn't – but there are different levels of these things. Ros keeps it as balanced as she can, but that's her job. You don't become the head escort with just a pretty face, it takes a talent that extends  _ far  _ beyond the bedroom. 

There are times when he finds this kind of business laughable; his employees are the best lovers money can buy, but the sex is the easy part. So many people, so unsatisfied with their sexual partners, when all it requires is discussion. They wrap their egos in with their sexual organs, and then are too fragile to speak to their wants or failures. That doesn't work at the Mockingbird. He can  _ train  _ people to have better stamina or more pleasing touches, but finding the ones with the right look, the ones who are smart, the ones who are a  _ good investment – _ that's the challenge. Robert envied him, but the business is almost as boring as Thursday afternoons with the Board. He's seen every sensual, lusty, depraved and debauched act known to the species at least three times each, and some many more than that, and it leaves him absolutely cold. So the women are beautiful? It's like appreciating a pretty vase to him, not indulging in human desires. That's just good business, otherwise the thing gets messy, and Petyr Baelish doesn't do  _ messy _ . He has people for that. When he's on the premises, he sometimes has to check in through the, “peep holes,” Ros calls them, when it's an important client being served. He's had to fire managers and hired guards for masturbating over them, but it's never a problem for him. It never even touches him, like he's a man made of ice. 

And then he catches red hair through the glass of the boardroom...

What people like Robert didn't get about him – what perhaps  _ no one  _ ever understood – was that he could have any easy slut he wanted, day or night, and he doesn't want that, so he doesn't indulge. It's like choosing hamburger over filet mignon to him. He's always had a taste for the finer things, and  _ Sansa Stark  _ is the very epitome of that. How she  _ melts  _ him, this cool, calm, icy man; with her hair like fire and her lips like sweet hell. He  _ wants _ , does the Chief Financial Officer, he  _ fantasizes _ . A virginal little high schooler, depending how deeply Joffrey has sunk his claws? Even better. He's around worldly, experienced women all the time, pure is  _ new _ , pure is  _ arousing _ . He employs women who can strip fit to torture the most sainted Pope, and here is sweet little Sansa, who doesn't have to do a  _ thing _ – who just stands there and makes him hard. That's power, that little red-haired vixen, she has  _ no  _ idea. 

There was a very brief period – a week, perhaps two – where he lay underneath his black silk sheets and berated himself. What the fuck was wrong with him?  _ Seventeen _ ! Seventeen, and long and leggy, with skin that looked like milk and probably tasted like cream, and Jesus Christ, cream – but  _ seventeen _ . This didn't last all that long. He considered: when he was seventeen, he was attracted to seventeen year olds, and this was fine, it was universally accepted that such women were attractive. It seemed ridiculous to then say he was unable to find such people attractive once he was  _ past  _ the age of seventeen. There was another issue as well, that,  _ apparently _ , his desires would be perfectly fine in less than a year when she was  _ eighteen _ . And that was just ridiculous. Sansa was young, she was naive (it made her  _ delicious _ ), but she wasn't a  _ child _ . This wasn't some sick attraction to youth for youth's sake, though her youth did make her attractive in terms of firm skin and pert breasts and all that lovely nonsense. She was post-pubescent, and men  _ liked  _ teenagers. Otherwise his “barely legal” girls wouldn't be such a big draw. Otherwise, every Disney pop starlet wouldn't be immediately sexualized at sixteen. It wasn't a matter of right or wrong, it was a matter of pure biology, and for his part, he'd rather people just admitted to their desires. He dislikes hypocrisy; the world is dark and dirty, and for what his opinion is worth, he'd prefer everyone admitted it and just moved on.

So after that, Petyr didn't bother about Sansa's age. It wasn't like he was  _ proud  _ of lusting after a high schooler, but what good would a guilt trip do? It wouldn't change his feelings, if anything, it would just make them stronger, buried in the back of his psyche. So he watches Miss Stark through the boardroom glass, sees her bend over the table at the waist to help Tommen with some homework problem or other – and does she know? Was she doing this on purpose, her ass almost perfectly facing in his direction? Because, honestly, he'd have to admire her all the more fiercely if she did, if she were already  _ that  _ good a player of the oldest game on the planet. He shifts in his seat and puts his files on his lap, a little as if he's ready for the meeting to wrap up (and when isn't he?).

He can't remember if it was before or after Daddy Stark got blown from his position on the Board, but he had Ros give him her Facebook information. Ros is smart and doesn't ask questions, she just does what he tells her to do, and on boring Sunday nights, he'd flick through Miss Stark's profile in the dark, sipping crème de menthe over ice and  _ learning. _ At first he fixated on the photos with Cat in them, twenty five years older and still as goddamn beautiful as she was at nineteen – but at some point, that changed. Perhaps he got bored of seeing the same photos over and over again, the same way he was bored of the same tired fantasy of love and adoration – in a version of the universe where good triumphs over evil and love is eternal, and isn't that just  _ absurd _ ? But at some point, he stopped looking at Cat and started looking at Sansa: Sansa with her siblings, Sansa with some friend named Jeyne, a few of Sansa with the youngest Tyrells. He read her posts from the insipid to the insightful, and one night thought that she was better than Cat. 

This was frightening enough for him to close the laptop and stay away from his stalking habit for at least a week. Sansa, better than Cat? But Cat was  _ perfect – _ but if she were perfect, then surely she would have chosen  _ him  _ over Brandon? She would have answered his letters? She wouldn't have fallen in with Ned Stark at Brandon's funeral and then, nice as you fucking pleased,  _ they  _ were engaged while Petyr Baelish fucking rotted in  _ goddamn fucking Estacada _ . So what does  _ that  _ mean? If Cat is perfect and imperfect, and Sansa is better, what does that  _ mean _ ?

Sansa's posts changed after her father's death. Cersei doesn't give her much contact outside their world, but she makes sure Sansa updates her Facebook every once in a while, because if a teenager isn't updating her Facebook, people will think that's odd. But Sansa doesn't post questions wondering about the nature of the world anymore, or talking about loving or hating her family. She posts links to youtube videos about puppies. She quotes Taylor Swift lyrics (he wonders if he can get her off Taylor Swift and more into opera; their equal parts melodramatic, and he knows she'd like the costumes). Her pictures are no longer of her, but of flowers, or the beach, or occasionally Margaery and Joffrey at the club, his club. Even if she's relieved to no longer be under that monster's claws, it has to hurt, being put aside for Margaery. Petyr wants to tell her that really, Margaery Tyrell is  _ nothing  _ next to her. Hippier, bustier, but none of the things that  _ matter _ . Sansa is too good for Joffrey, but right now she wouldn't believe that, and it's not something he can afford to say, so he thinks it and tastes it on his tongue, and that is enough.

Cat was a better student than Sansa, that much he knows. Sansa gets pristine grades, but she struggles with the harder sciences. He helped her with her calculus homework one afternoon, and couldn't remember being stupidly happier in  _ fucking months _ . Yet for all that, he thinks Sansa might be the smarter of the two; if it were teenage Cat under the Lannister eye, she'd have stood up for herself and gotten torn to pieces. Not Sansa. Sansa lays low, Sansa listens, Sansa  _ watches _ . Sansa knows she's in trouble, and she knows to make herself small and flatter the idiots around her, so that she seems perfectly, harmlessly innocent. Brilliant little girl. He could kiss her (he's going to kiss her, oh yes, he is). Cat was always polite, but Sansa's manners are  _ impeccable _ . When Daddy was about, she was the sweetest little flower in all of San Jose, and he remembers her complimenting his mockingbird tie tack in a moment of sheer affability. Sansa has no friends here now, and she relies on her charm, and  _ it works _ . So sweet, so darling is this girl, he sees even Joffrey's Hound waver in her presence, make exceptions for the little dove he'd never make for anyone else. A man who has no problem shooting puppies in the face if that's what he's paid to do, and yet he won't hurt Sansa Stark. Incredible. Cersei Baratheon isn't that good, and she could probably get her own brother to fuck her. Cat had an Irish Tully face with beautifully cut cheek bones and eyes like the river, but Sansa's all soft and warm and yielding in her charms. Maybe it's the Stark in her, Ned and Brandon did have rounder faces, and he never thought he'd be thankful for something from a Stark, but shit, there it is.

Petyr Baelish, a man with ice water for blood, now wakes up at five in the morning with a hard-on for Sansa Stark, and has to imagine her delicate, untouched hands for relief. He wants her to  _ burn  _ him, right to the bone, right to ashes, that girl with hair like fire, and he hasn't come so hard in  _ years _ when he thinks of her. “Like this, Mr. Baelish? Should I use my mouth now? What would you like me to do with my tongue, Mr. Baelish?”  _ Petyr, Sansa.  _ “Of course,  _ Petyr _ .” That daydream sends a jolt right through him. This is madness – and it's gorgeous. Not that it matters if he  _ is  _ Sansa's first, this isn't some idiotic, patriarchal fantasy of controlling a woman's sexuality. Nothing could be further from the truth. But otherwise it will probably be Joffrey, and he'd be  _ better  _ to her than that. He's an awful, horrible man, no bones about it, but he'd be good to her. He doesn't get off to pain like that little shit stain Joffrey, and he knows he could make her squirm and scream and cry with pleasure, and  _ oh God, he wants to do that _ . 

Varys has just finished his recommendation for beefing up company security, but Petyr really isn't listening. He makes sure to make eye contact with every board member for a few seconds before his eyes resettle on the girl outside, who smiles at Tommen when he finally gets a problem right and straightens her uniform jacket. And thank the almighty power of  _ Christ  _ for school girl outfits. To Baelish, this is like some cosmic blessing upon his desires, because no one would put a girl like Sansa in a black and grey checkered skirt that showed off her impossibly long legs and then expect him to keep his eyes and hands off. It's not a fetish for him, but he does sometimes imagine her in that uniform...Imagines her bent over that very table she bends over now – but all the way, so that his hand can ghost up the back of her thigh and lift the skirt away from her skin and squeeze her through her white panties. He always imagines white for Sansa's under things, it's that Catholic purity about her. Maybe pale pink, but he'll save the blacks and red and purples for  _ later  _ fantasies. Not that it matters what her underwear is like, or how she grooms, or anything, because who the fuck  _ cares _ ? Who obsesses over such an insignificant detail in the face of such overwhelming perfection? If there's a problem, they'll deal with it as it comes, without all the nervous nonsense that dooms so many other lovers. 

Other times, he imagines her in his shower, the way the heat of the water will turn her skin a mottled pink, or beads down her breasts with nipples like pale, early spring rosebuds. Sometimes it's just her, and sometimes he joins her, pins her against the tiled wall and wraps her legs around his hips, but Baelish never enters her in his daydreams. Either he's not content to dwell on it until he finally  _ has  _ her, or he'll wait for that fantasy until she  _ does  _ turn eighteen, but it's not important either way. It's enough to feel Sansa's heat, skin against skin, to smell her and touch her and taste her, and-

Poor, poor Sansa. He lies to her when he tells her he's not a monster, and he doesn't even feel bad about it. The world is  _ filled  _ with monsters, some better, some worse, but he's the kind that will keep her safe. He's a very bad man, but he's the bad man that's going to save her. The other members of the Board are starting to stand up, chairs scraping against the floor, and Sansa turns and catches his eye through the glass; smiles at him. He smiles back, and has no clue if it reaches his eyes or not – but it hardly matters.

He's pretty sure that – ah, yes, the crotch of his trousers is pitched like a tent. That perfect, innocent siren has done it again without any intention at all. He pulls his tablet back out and bends over it, looking like he absolutely  _ has  _ to finish taking down notes and sending emails based on the information he's received at this week's waste of a meeting so that he has a chance to cool down and not make a completely fool of himself – but goddamn Tyrion Lannister pulls up the chair to his right and clambers on up, almost glaring at him with black and green eyes. He has no idea how, but he has the irritating feeling that the Imp  _ knows _ ; something. Everything. 

“Is it too much to hope you care, Littlefinger, hm?” he asks, stubbed fingers drumming on the mirror-shine table.

Baelish smiles tightly but beautifully.  _ Keep up the nickname, Imp. This isn't going to last forever _ . “About what?”

“ _ This company _ . Cersei doesn't, Joffrey doesn't, whatever he says. I feel like a rat aboard a sinking ship. You're our Chief Financial Officer. Surely you care what our quarterly reports look like?”

“Desperately,” he assures him with an absent nod, tapping out more notes onto his tablet and trying to think of the most disgusting thing he can to reduce the pressure in his cock. Currently, Lysa Arryn.

“It does pay your wage, after all. Well,” a snort, “half your wage.”

Baelish grins, showing minty, white teeth. “And my deepest thanks for your contribution to the other half.” He'd keep on being witty and smarmy and dazzling – but there's that flash of red again. He doesn't mean to look,  _ he doesn't _ , but Joffrey is holding one of Sansa's textbooks above his head and demanding she placate him in order to have it returned, and his eyes flash green steel. Tyrion looks as well, and he's all scowls. 

“That,” he says with fingers to his chin, “is perhaps the one creature in this building who doesn't deserve us.”

Baelish pretends not to know his meaning and raises a chestnut eyebrow. “Deserve us?”

“The whole wretched lot of sinners that we are.”

“I won't deny that I am as wretched a sinner as they come,” he tries to grin, but  _ Sansa is right there, and how can he not look at her, don't look at her, but the way those lips beg mercy from that little cunt Joffrey _ \- “But I would argue I have been the most proper of gentlemen with our....young guest.”

Tyrion's crooked mouth purses for a moment, and his eyes seem to take in more than the physical realm. It's an ugly look on an ugly face. “How long do you think you'll manage to keep that up?”

“Hopefully until Christmas. I'd so wish to end up on the Nice list this year.”

“What, to receive a Naughty present?”

“I'm afraid I'm full up on those.”

“Don't tell me you're acquiring all nice things now. It will make your club no fun at all.” The eyes in that squidged face flashed, first the green, then the black. “Or was this a gift strictly for Littlefinger and his little finger? What – or whom – did you have in mind?” Petyr is  _ dead fucking certain  _ his eyes never moved, never gave him away, yet Tyrion turns and looks at Sansa anyway.  _ A bluff. Nothing but a bluff, and I play this game better than he does _ . “Well, if you've only struck out once...why not try again?”

His mouth crooks at the corners in an imitation of a smile – but his pants have gone back to a presentable state, so Petyr stands and enjoys being taller than the littlest Lannister, even if that's a hollow victory. “I'm afraid I have to dash. Best of luck with the security breech.”

He's out the glass door and halfway down the hall when he bumps into her, pressed against a wall and taping pages of her textbook back into place.  _ Joffrey Baratheon needs a bad end _ . She gasps a little, shoulders bending in nervousness, but relaxes when she sees it's him – and that's a nice thought. “O-oh.” Sansa even manages a very small smile. “Hello, Mr. Baelish.”

He presses the down button on the elevator. “Petyr, Sansa.”

“Petyr,” she corrects herself, still smiling. “I hope we weren't too loud during your meeting.”

“Not at all – though it would have been a pleasant distraction. And how was your calculus test.”

Sansa blows a lock of red hair from out of her eyes, her smile a mix of a grimace. “I did the best I could.”

“If you get it back, show it to me. We'll go over where you might have gone wrong.”

“B-but – I'd feel awful, taking up your time with school work.”

“I wouldn't. No worse than the time taken up with meetings.”

Sansa smiles again and nods. “Okay. If you're sure it's not a bother.”

“No bother at all.” The elevator doors open and he steps inside, nodding his goodbye to her. “Until tomorrow, my dear.” The doors start to close as she smiles at him again, but  _ goddamn it _ , he swears he can see Tyrion standing at the end of the hall, a knowing look on his dwarfish face. Fuck Tyrion Lannister, too. 

In a few minutes, he's made it to his car, a dark green Lexus, and he hits the key-less ignition with perhaps more force than is strictly necessary. He enjoys the hum of the engine as the power of it thrums through the car, and he lets his head tip back against the head of the seat for a moment, eyes closing. If he was getting obvious, then he was getting sloppy, and that would never do. Tonight would be a drinking night. That would give him an outlet for stress. And if he thought about fiery red hair and white skin,  _ fine _ . Just get as much of it out of his system as possible before morning; because in the morning, the Lannister children and their adoptive ingenue arrived with Cersei at eleven sharp, and that would mean a whole day of knowing she was right down the hall, a moment's reach, just a-

When he moves to dump his files and tablet on the passenger seat, he accidentally knocks the radio button. “ _ Don't stand, don't stand so, don't stand so close to me- _ ” 

Petyr could almost laugh.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is just excerpts of me and Mztlynne talking about this fic while she read it. To show that, really, we're not horrible people (mostly):  
> "I just want you to know that this is weird (in a good way) and Baelish is narrating to me in my head."  
> ...  
> "(I have to say I only agree with this for Baelish. This concept does NOT apply to all people)"  
> "(Oh, totally, 100%. No, I do not like older people taking sexual advantage of younger people, but we live in a complicated world where there ARE sometimes situations where you can go, "Okay, well, in THIS case...")"


End file.
